Sensory Overload
by cattaclysm
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider and your best friend's house might just be heaven.


The first time you walk into the foyer, it carries a certain aura of uneasiness, making you nervous. It's cozy and warm and decorated and familiar and it reminds you of your grandfather's house, when you'd sit in his study, kick your legs on the leather couch and watch in childish wonder as he wrote away on a piece of paper with a pen he let you hold only if you promised to be careful. Sometimes he used his typewriter, and the sound of metal against paper lulled you into a state of bliss. But this isn't your grandfather's study. This is John's house.

Your name is Dave Strider, you are 12 years old and your best friend left you alone at his house while he takes a bath. You're a family friend, both of your families get along great, it's okay to do this. You grew up together. Yet it feels so foreign as you hesitantly step into the living room. You sit down on the couch slowly, being careful not to make a mess, and grab one of John's notebooks, wading through the notes from your 6th grade english class as you look for something to entertain yourself with. A foggy coziness is present as the gentle crackle of the fireplace fills the air and you exhale a breath you didn't notice you've been holding.

You feel a bit more confident and bold so you doodle in the back of John's notebook, slipping your shoes off and curling your legs under you. The lights are dimmed and it reminds you of one of those film noir movies you watch with your brother when there's nothing else on TV. You secretly think there's something calming about the atmosphere they carry, but you'd never admit that.

The calming sound of fire is interrupted by a gramophone playing steady jazz, the hum of the record player forcing you out of your thoughts. As the door of the study opens, you feel out of place, like you did something horrible, and John's dad stands at the doorway and smiles at you.

"Oh, Dave, good evening," and you mumble out a reply, "John didn't tell me you were coming over. Where is he anyway?" he says, noticing the absence of his son.

"Taking a bath," you barely manage against the stuffy coziness of the room.

"Well you shouldn't be sitting here all by yourself. Come here," he gestures towards the room with his pipe, "I'm doing some boring paperwork but I'd love some company."

You cautiously walk into the study, the yellow lights brighter than the ones in the living room, you sit on the leather chair by the desk and he sits on the larger one, pulling out his pen and writing and you're not sure what it is but his handwriting looks impeccable.

The entire universe feels unreal and you're looking at reality through a comfortable clear plastic as he rustles your hair and asks you about school.

"It's good," you answer and watch as he writes, anticipating what would happen next. Would John come down and call you to play video games? Or would Mr Egbert ask you something else? Maybe your brother would call for you to get home because it's late. The grandfather clock in the corner chimes as the shortest hand stood on the '11' and you look over at John's dad. He's focused on his work and you watch his face as he writes quickly and precisely and you sink in your seat a bit and yawn.

You're not quite sure how this story goes but in the movies it's always a girl who does this. Who sits at the desk of a businessman and watches him work. But you're not a girl so it can't be like in the movies and you twiddle your thumbs as the gramophone skips a beat, drawing your attention for a moment before returning you to your thoughts.

A noise, you think, absolutely overcomes every other as your stomach rumbles with hunger. It doesn't, however, it's a soft noise, but Mr Egbert looks at you and sets his pen down and you feel ashamed.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Uh, sure."

"I swear," he says, more to himself, "that boy needs to take better care of his guests," you barely hear that last part and he gets up and walks towards the door, leaving you alone in the room. A childish curiosity overtakes you and you scope the papers quickly.

Something about a doctor and a word you can't quite read. Maybe it's a prescription, you're not quite sure. John's father walks back into the room with a small sandwich and you swear to god you'll mess this up.

Your name is Dave Strider and you have never handled a sandwich with more intense care than you are doing right now. You are so carefully trying not to make any bit of a mess and your movements are awkward and the sandwich tastes godly but you eat slowly.

The door opens again and John's face peeks through, his hair a wet mess, and he grins ear to ear.

"Hey there, Dave!" he greets you, "sorry I took so long," and he walks in and hugs his dad and grabs your hand, "thanks dad," and it's quicker than anything else he's said, "come on, I need to show you what my gran got me from Germany."

You follow him out the door and your senses are so overstimulated that you'd die if he touched your arm. You stay in his room looking at his presents and playing with marbles until you hear his dad knock on the door and you know it's your bro.

"Dave, your brother called," he pierces the silence slowly, "he wants you to come home."

5 minutes later, you're putting your shoes on and John is whispering something to his dad. 7 minutes later, you're in his dad's car, in the passenger's seat, on your way home.

The car smells like expensive tobacco and newly opened books and you lean back in the seat and watch the road pass by the window as the rain falls slowly, staining the glass. You exchange a few words and he walks out into the rain and opens the door for you when you get there and you walk out and thank him for the ride and run through the gates and into your house.

When you get to bed, you smell of cologne and tobacco and you stare out your window, yearning for that foreign coziness and John's house seems like a good idea.


End file.
